


Which Dwalin is it Anyway?

by TheGlassFloor



Series: The Power of Three Dwarves [1]
Category: Charmed (TV 1998), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Family History, Housemates, M/M, Magic, Telekinesis, kickboxer!Nori, magical powers, psychic!Nori, sassy!Bofur, sophisticated!Dwalin, spells
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-21 08:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20690168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGlassFloor/pseuds/TheGlassFloor
Summary: When Dwalin becomes a supernatural assassin’s next target, he casts a spell for extra protection, believing it will give him three times his normal level of power.  Instead, the spell creates two extra Dwalins.Meanwhile, Bofur works hard, and Nori learns kickboxing.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been wanting to write a story about male Charmed Ones for a long time. Finally I decided to do it, using modern-day versions of characters from The Hobbit movies. This fic is based on the season 1 episode “Which Prue is it Anyway?” which is one of my favorite episodes. Hope you like it.

_ Dwalin Ferguson, Bofur Kellenger, and Nori Reynolds had the most unusual upbringing of anyone they knew. When they were kids, their families would often send them over to the house of a nice, old lady named Dahlia Randall to be looked after. They spent so many weekends at “Aunt Dahlia’s” that they came to think of her as family, as much as they did their real families. _

_ Eventually the three young men grew up and went their separate ways, until “Aunt Dahlia” passed away and left her house to all three of them in her will. _

_ Reluctantly, the stringent Dwalin, sharp-witted Bofur, and headstrong Nori returned to one another’s lives, moving into the house together and agreeing to share in its expenses. _

_ Everything seemed to be normal. That is, until one night when Nori found an old book in the attic, titled _ Durin’s Book of Dwarrow Magic _ , and thus discovered the secret truth of their ancestries... _

_ Untold ages ago, a prosperous nation of dwarves was governed by three powerful families. Each family possessed not only political power, but also magical power...until one day when an evil wizard placed a curse on the entire race, declaring that their children would gradually be born taller and taller, until eventually they would be indistinguishable from humans and their entire culture would be lost, their magic diminished. _

_ Flash forward to the modern age, and to Nori reading an incantation from the book, out loud, at last restoring the powers of the three families to their latest descendants. _

_ Dwalin received the power to move things with his mind. Bofur gained the ability to freeze time. And Nori became the recipient of visions of the future. _

_ Together they form The Power of Three Dwarves, and with these powers they were also bestowed with the responsibility to protect innocent people from orcs, goblins, and other forms of evil that continue to walk the earth even to this day… _

_ * * * _

**visual guide**

** I’m basically imagining modern day Dwalin looking like Graham McTavish. A little younger, maybe, and clean shaven. **

** **

** My concept of Bofur and Nori is less specific, but this will give you an idea of their facial hair at least: **

**Bofur:**

** **

**Nori:**


	2. Chapter 2

A pale, dark-haired man (or what passes for a man, anyway) wearing a long, black trenchcoat and a cruel smile steps into the locker room of the local gymnasium, his eyes focused on the only other person in the room: a hulking brute of a man, dressed in sweats, sitting on a bench and stuffing his belongings into a duffel bag.

“Sharkey Smith,” the pale man says, delighted at having found the person he was looking for.

“Yeah,” Smith replies, barely even looking up from what he’s doing. “Who wants to know?”

“Just a fan. I saw your match in Rohan three years ago. Bloodiest fight I’ve ever seen. The other boxer didn’t even make it to the hospital--he died right there in the ring.”

The boxing champion stands, his full height reaching over six feet. Slinging the strap of his bag over his shoulder, he approaches the exit, his muscular frame casting a shadow over the shorter, leaner, trenchcoat-wearing figure in front of him. He pauses only briefly and says, “Yeah, well, you know. Everybody gotta go sometime.”

“I want to know what it felt like to take another life with your own hands.”

Smith pulls a face. “Who the hell are you, anyway? Move! Get outta my way!”

He doesn’t budge. “Not until I get what I came for.”

Smith sizes him up, looking like he’s about ready to punch him. “And what might that be?”

“Your killer instinct.”

He pulls a sword out from the folds of his trenchcoat and thrusts it straight into the chest of the boxer. Smith barely has any time to react, let alone cry out in agony, or do much of anything other than let out a small, strangled gurgle before falling to the floor, dead. The sword-wielding menace holds the weapon hovering over his victim’s lifeless corpse for a moment before the jeweled hilt begins to glow, drawing the athlete’s soul out of its body and imprisoning it in the magical sword. He kisses the blade, then conceals it in his coat once again and walks out of the building.

* * *

Meanwhile, off and away in another part of the city of Erebor Bay, Dwalin and Bofur arrive home at the same time. It’s early evening, and as they step through the front door together, they’re already midway through a conversation that consists mostly of Bofur talking and Dwalin listening. Bofur has a lot to say about the difficulties he faces on a daily basis, being the manager at an upscale restaurant called Beleriand Bistro (named for its location on Beleriand Avenue).

“And since it’s that time of year for the _ delightful _ task known as inventory,” Bofur says while shutting the door behind them, “I have to count everything in the restaurant, right down to the last swizzle stick. It’s gonna take days.”

“Well,” Dwalin says, trying his best to be a supportive friend, “I guess that’s why you get paid the medium-sized bucks.” He stops and stands in the middle of the foyer, looking off to the side into the living room. “Okay...what’s wrong with this picture?”

“Other than me not getting paid enough, you mean?” Bofur says, feeling only slightly miffed about Dwalin changing the subject before he was finished complaining about his job.

“I’m talking about _ that _.” Dwalin points at the stone carving of an axe-wielding dwarf in the far corner of the neighboring room; a larger-than-life-sized replica of a proud, noble warrior from an age long-since passed.

“Aunt Dahlia’s statue?” Bofur says.

“Yes. What is it still doing here?”

“We talked about it last night, remember?”

“I do remember, and I thought we agreed that it’s an eyesore and that it’s going back into storage.”

“Yeah, well, that was before I found out just how ridiculously expensive storage is downtown, whereas storage here at home costs, well, nothing, so I talked to Nori and we decided the statue can stay right where it is. And hey, last time I checked, we still live in a democracy.”

“I _ don’t like it _, Bofur.”

“Sorry, buddy, majority rules. Unless, of course, you can move it yourself.”

Dwalin accepts the challenge, focusing his eyes on the statue, summoning all the telekinetic energy he possibly can. He squints, magically connecting to the object as though a pair of strong, invisible arms are shooting out of his eyes and latching onto it. The statue rocks forward slightly, then backward, then back flat on its base once again. This happens a few more times before Dwalin’s energy wears out and he releases it from his hold. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, then emits a growl of frustration.

Bofur chuckles. “I was just kidding. It’s solid marble. It took eight of Nori’s bouncer friends to move it. It’s way too heavy for you to move all by yourself, even with your powers.”

“Yeah, well, my powers are still growing, and one of these days…”

“You can move it into the basement, but until then you’re just gonna have to suffer.”

Just then, the sharp exclamation of “Hi-YA!” is heard from the next room over, the solarium. Dwalin and Bofur follow the sound to its source and find Nori there with his back turned to them, wearing a tank top and a pair of trunks, punching and kicking a figure in front of him. It’s vaguely in the shape of a man, and it lights up in various places and makes grunting sounds depending on where Nori’s fists and feet impact it.

“Hi-YA!”

“Hey, Nori,” Bofur says, causing him to let out a small yelp and spin around in surprise.

“Do you have to say ‘hi-ya’ like that,” Bofur wonders, “or is it just for dramatic effect?”

Nori laughs nervously. “Hey, guys. I, uh...was just, uh…”

“Openin’ up a can o’ whoop-ass!”

“Yeah,” Dwalin says with a smile, “those are some serious moves. Where did you learn that?”

“All right,” Nori says, “I’m busted, I confess...I got tired of always watching you two fend off bad guys with your telekinesis and freezing power, meanwhile all I ever have to add to the situation are my lame premonitions…”

“Don’t say that,” Bofur says, lightly touching Nori’s arm. “Your powers are a gift, passed down to you from your ancestors.”

“The point is, it’s a _ passive _ power. Not much good in a fight. So, I’ve been taking self-defense classes, which I’ve been putting on my new credit card.”

“And this thing is…?” Bofur points at the dummy.

“Slam Man!” Nori says proudly, putting his arm around the dummy’s shoulders. “Got him off an infomercial.”

“Great,” Dwalin says, rolling his eyes. “Another eyesore in the house.”

“It’s a total and complete martial arts training system! And with its easy installment payment plan--which I also put on my new credit card--it’ll pay for itself the first time I get a chance to kick some nasty goblin ass. Hey…” He puts up his dukes. “You guys wanna spar?”

Bofur folds his arms, looking amused. “No, thanks.”

“How ‘bout you, Dwalin?”

“Sure.” Dwalin winks, sending out a quick, invisible bolt of telekinetic energy, causing the dummy to tip forward and bump Nori in the back with its head.

“Hey!” Nori reacts. “That’s not fair!”

“Yeah, well, when’s the last time you met an orc who was willing to play f--_ Hey _!”

Nori has already moved around him, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back. Dwalin tries to wriggle free, to no avail. Clearly Nori has practiced this move a time or two.

“Ha ha! Got you this time! Can’t use your muscles to take me on if you can’t get your arm free!”

“When the hell have I ever used my muscles to--_ Ow _! Let go!”

“Can’t use your powers either. Not if you can’t see me!”

Bofur is doubled over laughing at this point.

“Nori…” Dwalin’s voice grows softer, calmer. Which, to anyone who knows him well, signals that he’s actually _ losing _ his patience. “I’m telling you one more time. _ Let go _.”

Nori sees a flash in his mind’s eye, and immediately his hold on Dwalin slackens. He lets go of him altogether, shutting his eyes as a mental image draws him out of the present moment.

Often Nori’s premonitions will occur when he touches an object--or sometimes even a person--that the vision pertains to. They can happen practically at any time. In this case, he sees Dwalin, a future Dwalin, being approached by a man in a dark trenchcoat. The man draws a weapon, a long sword made of a material that refracts the light passing through it, like a crystal--and stabs Dwalin with it. He falls to the floor dead, and the vision ends there.

Nori opens his eyes. He looks at Dwalin and Bofur, who are looking at him. By now they’ve learned to recognize the physical signs Nori exhibits when he’s having a vision. The serious looks on their faces must reflect how _ he _ must look at the moment, and indeed they can tell that whatever Nori just saw must not have been good.

“What did you see?” Dwalin asks.

Nori’s hand is on his chest and he can feel his own rapid heartbeat. He lets out a troubled breath and says, “I saw you die.”


	3. Chapter 3

_ **The next morning...** _

“We’re gonna need a lot more of this,” Bofur says, beelining for the coffeemaker and pouring himself a large cup of it, then replacing the carafe and turning to Nori, who’s sitting on a stool at the large island in the middle of the kitchen. He’s still in his pajamas (which is actually just a v-neck and a pair of flannel bottoms) and he’s drawing on a large sheet of sketch paper.

“You couldn’t sleep either, huh?” he says without looking up from his drawing.

Bofur takes a sip of the hot coffee and swallows. “No. I was up all night. I couldn’t get that image of Dwalin getting killed out of my head.” He moves closer to get a better look at the sword that Nori has sketched.

“I drew it from memory as best I could,” he says. “Haven’t found anything about it in _ Durin’s Book _ yet, though. I wish that thing had an index.”

“I wish you’d gotten a better look at the killer’s face in your vision.”

“Yeah, well. If anyone tries to impale my best friend, they’re gonna have to get through me first.”

Bofur does a half-smile in spite of his tiredness. “Your best friend, eh? I thought _ I _ was your best friend.”

“You both are, you idiot, and you know it.”

“Oh, good, coffee,” Dwalin says as he walks into the kitchen and goes to pour himself a cup. Bofur and Nori can’t help noticing that he’s wearing a dress shirt and tie, pressed slacks, and a pair of fancy black leather shoes--the kind of outfit he’d normally wear on a weekday at Girion’s, the auction house where he works.

“Why are you all dressed up?” Nori asks.

Dwalin frowns, as if he’s trying to process the question, before answering, “Because Casual Friday isn’t for three more days.” He holds his coffee cup with both hands and takes a sip.

“Why do I have the feeling that you’re about to tell us you’ve changed your mind about staying home from work today?” Bofur says.

“I _ was _ going to stay home, but then Narga called, telling me she has a client that wants to put a major collection on the block, and if we get this account, it would be a serious coup for Girion’s.”

“Can’t Narga get somebody else to do it?”

“Bofur, I have worked so hard to get Narga to trust me with something like this. Why should someone else get all the glory?”

“I’ll take the category of ‘Vile Aggressors Who Want You Dead’ for a thousand, Alex,” Nori quips. Dwalin ignores him.

“I can’t believe you would risk your life to impress your boss. Dwalin. You can not. Leave. The house.”

“Okay,” Dwalin says patiently, “how ‘bout we just take a second to relax and put this into perspective, hmm? For starters, we have no idea when this trenchcoat-wearing asshole is even gonna show up. Second, Nori’s had premonitions before that we’ve been able to affect the outcome of, right?” He looks to Nori.

“Well, yeah, but--”

“And in your premonition it was a man who killed me, right? Well, I’m going to Girion’s to meet with a female client, and Narga will be with me every step of the way. Besides, now that you’ve warned me, I’ll watch my back. I promise you guys, I can handle this.”

“The promise we want from you,” Bofur says, “is that you’ll come straight home from Girion’s.”

Nori nods in agreement.

“All right,” says Dwalin. “I promise.”

* * *

A short while later, on the 12th floor of the office building where Girion’s Auction House is located, Dwalin meets with his boss, a woman named Narga Thrond. The two of them are walking together down a hallway towards her office; they stop just outside the door.

“The client is inside,” Narga says. “You remember what I told you on the phone?”

“That this woman’s family has more money than God,” Dwalin says, “and if we land this account, it could put Girion’s in the black for years.”

“Exactly. You ready?”

Dwalin smirks. “You know it.”

A woman with blond hair cut in a short bob is seated at a table inside the office. She looks up from her phone as Narga and Dwalin enter.

“Olga Gorrick?” Narga says. “I would like you to meet Dwalin Ferguson, one of our best and brightest young specialists.”

Olga smiles. “Best and brightest, hmm? That’s quite an introduction.”

Dwalin returns the smile. “Yes, it is.” He looks at Narga. “Maybe I should get a raise.”

Narga doesn’t smile. “Let’s have a seat, shall we?”

She settles into the chair next to Olga. Dwalin sits across from both of them.

“Mr. Ferguson,” Olga begins, “my brother and I hold an extensive collection of antiquities. If we were to retain your firm, you’d be cataloguing, appraising, and selling some of the finest pieces you’ve ever seen in your career. Maybe even your whole life.”

“Just what kind of collection are we talking about, exactly?” Dwalin asks.

“The kind that occupies three buildings in the Warehouse District,” she says. “We have art and artifacts from every period and movement in human history. We _ would _ want a sample appraisal, of course.”

Narga nods. “Absolutely. In fact, Dwalin will be there today, if you like.”

“That would be wonderful.”

Dwalin wears an expression of concern. “The Warehouse District? Today?”

“Is that a problem?” Olga says.

Narga stares daggers at him. He can practically hear her thinking, _ You’d better say no. _

“Not at all,” he finally responds, trying his best to project an eagerness that isn’t quite genuine. “I’d be glad to.”

* * *

In another part of town, at the Beleriand Bistro, Bofur is up to his elbows working on the yearly inventory he was telling Dwalin about.

“_ Twelve _ potato ricers?” Bofur says to the staff member holding a box full of the items. “What kind of restaurant needs twelve potato ricers? Whatever, just put them in back with the box of lemon reamers.”

The staff member walks away just as Nori comes running up to him. He looks out of breath, like he just sprinted into the restaurant to find him. He cuts right to the chase.

“I just called Girion’s,” he says in between breaths, “and they said that Dwalin left the office for a meeting.”

“_ What _? He promised he would go straight home!”

“Wait, it gets worse. I finally found the crystal sword in _ Durin’s Book _\--”

Bofur shushes him loudly, taking his arm and moving with him to the other end of the bar where they’re less likely to be overheard.

“It’s the symbol of the Lords of War,” Nori says in a hushed tone, barely above a whisper. “They’re a clan of supernatural warlord orcs. They’ve been around for as long as humans have been around.”

“What do they want?”

“To start war. They started most of the major wars in human history, and once they’re finished in one place, they get reincarnated in some other part of the world and start all over again.”

“Are they flesh and blood?”

“Yes, but according to the book, as long as they have their sword, not only are they protected by it, the sword’s magic also makes them _ immune _ to the weapons of mankind.”

Bofur struggles to understand. “So...we’re dealing with an invulnerable guy running around with a sword who wants to start a war? I don’t get it. Am I missing something?”

“Well, the Lords of War may be invulnerable, but they do have a code of honor, and when one of them is disgraced, they have to steal their abilities back.”

“What the hell does any of this have to do with Dwalin?”

“I was getting to that. One of the things they have to steal back is a dwarf’s power of telekinesis. _ Dwalin’s power _.”

“Wait...Why are you telling _ me _ this? Have you told Dwalin yet?”

“I tried. I keep getting his voicemail. He must have turned his phone off.”

Bofur lets out a loud, aggravated sigh. “Of course he did.” He slams his ledger shut. “Fuck this. I’ll deal with this later. I’ll call the night shift manager, see if she can cover for me. We have to find Dwalin.”

Nori feels impressed. He’s tempted to ask where this assertive, swearing Bofur came from all of a sudden, but ultimately decides against it.


	4. Chapter 4

Dwalin arrives at the address of the warehouse unit he was given, going up to the door and pushing it open easily, surprised to find it unlocked.

“Miss Gorrick?” he calls out into the seemingly empty darkness. No one answers.

He enters, walking a few paces forward, hoping his eyes will adjust once he’s further inside.

Come to think of it, there didn’t appear to be _ any _ security measures implemented in the area, in addition to the door being left unlocked. It would almost seem like they _ want _ somebody to just wander in. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s been explicitly invited here…

BANG!

Dwalin whirls around.

The door has slammed, evidently blown shut by the wind.

He can hardly see anything. There are no windows, and any faint, residual electrical light seems too far distant to be of any help. He wonders if he entered the building through the wrong door.

Dwalin tries his best to suppress the feeling of apprehension that’s slowly creeping up on him. He can still make a break for it if he needs to...can’t he?

“Miss Gorrick?” he repeats.

A light flicks on, and Olga Gorrick comes into view.

“Hello, Mr. Ferguson.”

Now that he’s able to see, he notices the many shelves and wooden crates all around. Some are stacked almost all the way to the ceiling. Most of them are sealed, the items inside of them hidden from view, but a few of them have been opened and their contents placed on folding tables or directly on the cement floor.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I hope I didn’t startle you.”

He forces a smile. “No. Of course not. I don’t startle easily.”

“So, what do you think of our collection?” she asks, nodding in the direction of the items.

“I think you have exquisite taste,” Dwalin says, raising his eyebrows. If these few items are just a sample of what’s inside the rest of the crates, filling up three whole warehouses…

“My brother and I have been collecting our entire lives,” Olga says. “It’s our binding passion.”

“Is that a Numenorian vessel?”

Olga folds her arms. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Dwalin’s amazement at what he’s seeing is tempered only by his determination to remain professional. He reaches out for the artifact that’s been set on one of the tables, an ancient-looking urn with handles resembling a pair of svelte female figures, with other details fashioned all around the bulk of it.

“I’ve never seen one in such good condition,” he says, his fingertips lightly touching the edges of the vessel. “The handles represent Varda, and the relief details the constellations. It must be thousands of years old. It’s very rare, not to mention priceless.”

“Wow. Narga was right, you really are something.”

He smiles, more sincerely this time.

“What can you tell me about this item?” she says, guiding him over to a large, wooden block that comes up to just above his waist. A pair of grooves have been carved into the top of the block, each about the size of a human arm.

“It’s a pillory. Looks like the kind that would have been used during the Inquisition. Only…” He places his forearms inside of the grooves. “The top part is missing, the piece that would have held the victim’s arms in place.”

“There never was a top part. The victim’s arms were held in place by a bolted restraint.”

She surreptitiously flips a switch, causing a pair of steel rods to shoot across the top of the arm holes, making a loud _ clack _ sound and trapping Dwalin’s arms inside.

Stepping over to his right, she extends her hand in greeting to a newcomer.

“Dwalin Ferguson,” she says, “I’d like you to meet my brother, Azog.”

He looks to the left and sees someone emerging from the shadows of one of the warehouse’s massive shelving units, a pale-skinned male dressed all in black, with the hilt of a crystal sword hanging from his belt. His slightly pointed ears stick out a little between the strands of his messy mop of black hair. Nori must not have noticed that particular detail, or at least neglected to mention it.

“I’d shake your hand,” Azog says, grinning rather maniacally, “but I see that’s impossible at the moment.”

Dwalin looks back at Olga. “What are you doing?”

“Killing a piece of dwarf filth, that’s what,” she responds.

“Your ancestor’s power emanated from his hands,” Azog says. “No doubt yours does, too.”

“My ancestor?” Dwalin says, trying but failing to wrest his arms free.

“A descendant of dwarf scum named Perogi,” Olga clarifies. She throws her head back laughing. “You’re not the only one who knows how to do research.”

Dwalin looks down at the pillory, focusing his power on the steel bolts, forcing them to retract and thereby setting his arms free. He looks back up at Olga, squinting at her before she or her brother have time to react. She staggers backward from the forceful push of his power, hitting the table of artifacts and toppling over it before falling to the floor on the other side.

He grabs the closest item at hand, which happens to be a battle axe attached to a medieval suit of armor. The irony of his disdain for his surrogate aunt’s statue of an axe-wielding dwarf isn’t lost on him as he swings the weapon in Azog’s direction. The sharp edge hits the orc square in the chest, slicing through the fabric of his shirt--and nothing else.

He isn’t hurt. The axe didn’t even scratch him. Dwalin stares in astonishment.

Azog has already drawn his sword. Now, Dwalin decides, would probably be a good time to make a run for it.

The pale orc throws his sword in the direction of his target’s retreating back, missing him by mere inches. Dwalin manages to dodge around a large wooden crate, which the blade hits and get lodged in instead. Azog extends his hand, magically drawing it out of the crate from a distance and summoning it back to him, handle first. The sword flies through the air, straight towards Azog, until the hilt reaches his grasp and he takes hold of it again.

Dwalin bolts out the door, gets in his car, and floors it out of the otherwise empty warehouse parking lot. Olga, having collected herself, joins her brother just outside the door a moment later, watching his would-be victim turn onto the main road and speed away into the distance.

“How did he _ do _ that?”

Azog’s lip curls contemptuously. “He’s not like his ancestor. He channels his power through his eyes, not his hands. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“He knows about us now. We have to move fast, attack him at home.”

“No. Home is where he has the Power of Three Dwarrow to protect him.” He lightly pinches his sister’s chin between his thumb and forefinger in an affectionate manner. “We’ll think of another way.”

* * *

“The _ reason _ the axe didn’t penetrate his flesh,” Bofur says, “is because his sword makes him immune to the weapons of mankind. Which, of course, we could have told you if you hadn’t turned off your fucking phone.”

“Yeah, well. I got away, didn’t I?” Dwalin says, sounding only slightly indignant at Bofur’s tone. “And I’m fine, obviously.”

He called them after he made his getaway and the three of them regrouped back at home. Presently Dwalin is lolling on the sofa in the living room, his legs spread out in front of him. Bofur is sitting in the armchair. He gets up out of his seat and leaves the room.

Dwalin closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath and exhales through his nostrils. He knows his indignation is misplaced and that his I-can-take-care-of-myself attitude is uncalled for. Beneath it all, he does feel genuinely guilty for breaking his promise to Bofur and Nori, especially since he knows they were worried about him, which just makes it even worse.

Bofur returns a minute later from the kitchen with a bottle of beer in each hand.

“Thought we could use a drink after the day we had,” he says, holding one out for Dwalin. “Here.”

He takes it. “Thanks.”

Bofur sits down again. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he says softly, briefly meeting Dwalin’s eye before taking a big swig from the bottle in his hand.

Nori enters, returning from having gone upstairs to fetch the book.

“What, no beer for me? Rude.”

Bofur sighs, setting his bottle down on the coffee table and moving to stand up. “Sorry. I’ll--”

“Forget it,” Nori says, motioning for him to stay put. He looks at Dwalin. “I found some information in here about your ancestor Perogi Ferguson.” He sits down on the sofa next to him and places the large, leatherbound tome on the coffee table in front of them, opening it and turning its pages. “He was your great-great-great-great uncle. He could move things with his mind, just like you can. Apparently he disgraced Azog during some foreign war over a hundred years ago. He used his power to take away Azog’s sword. Now, I guess Azog is trying to earn his abilities back.”

“Great,” Dwalin says after taking a drink. “I’m marked for death because some asshole couldn’t keep it in his sheath.”

Bofur shakes his head. “Some guys are very sensitive about their weapons.”

Dwalin stifles a breathy laugh. Nori smiles.

“Lords of War and their weapons are supposed to be inseparable,” he says, “but Perogi was supposedly able to send his sword hundreds of miles away.”

“Okay,” Dwalin says, “a sword I can move. But hundreds of miles away? I’m not _ that _ powerful.”

“I thought about that.” Nori stops paging through the book, having found the one he wanted. “Luckily, I found this incantation.”

The page is headed by a single word: “Multiplicity”. Some smaller words are printed below it, reading: “To multiply your strength, recite these words at length”, followed by the verses of the incantation.

Dwalin reads the words silently to himself, then looks up at Nori. “So...all I have to do is say this incantation and I’ll be stronger?”

“Hopefully strong enough to separate Azog from his sword.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

“Sounds like a bad idea,” Bofur comments.

Nori shoots him a quizzical look. “Why? Because it’s mine?”

“No, because there might be a Power of Three solution to this.”

“It’s _ me _ he’s after, Bofur,” Dwalin says, “not you or Nori.”

“But we’re a team. Hey, I know… What if we took some time off? You and I both have sick time at work that we haven’t used yet, right? We could lay low for a few days.”

“And wait for Azog to find us?” Dwalin shakes his head. “I don’t think so. And besides, he might hurt one of you to get to me, and I will not take that risk.” He stands up.

“Now wait a second,” Bofur protests. “Can we at least vote on this?”

“Sure. All in favor of me saying the incantation, raise your hand.”

Dwalin and Nori both raise their hands.

“Sorry, buddy, majority rules.” Dwalin smirks, privately congratulating himself for using Bofur’s words from last night. Bofur looks unimpressed.

Dwalin lifts _ Durin’s Book of Dwarrow Magic _ off of the table, keeping it open to the Multiplicity page, and begins reciting the incantation while he carries it up the stairs. Bofur watches him go, then turns and glares at Nori.

“What?” Nori reacts.

“Don’t give me ‘_ what _ ’, you cocksucker. You _ know _ what.”

_ You’ve sucked quite a few yourself _, Nori thinks, but that’s beside the point. “Excuse me if I don’t see a problem with Dwalin saying the incantation,” he says.

“The _ problem _ is that we’re in this together, and together we’re supposed to solve our problems.”

_That's deep_. “And together we rely on the book of magic spells we have at our disposal when such problems arise. Come on, Bofur, what’s the worst that can happen?”

Right at that moment, a loud clap of thunder can be heard coming from somewhere upstairs, making them both jump.

“What the hell?” Bofur and Nori both say at once. They lock eyes, hesitating only for a moment before running up the stairs to investigate the source of the sound.

A thunderous rumble continues, leading them all the way to the attic, where Dwalin is. Intermittent flashes of light springing out of empty air and a violent whirlwind encircling him make it seem like a miniature storm has been conjured indoors. The book has been dropped on the floor several feet away.

The commotion ceases after a few seconds and the electrical lights flicker back on, dimly at first, but as they brighten, Bofur and Nori stare at what’s in front of them, unable to believe what they’re seeing.

A moment ago, there was only one Dwalin standing there. Now there are three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to be updated soon...


End file.
